Too Good to Be True(52)

“Uh…” I said, glancing around in frozen horror. “Was that your ex?” I asked.

“She means nothing to me anymore,” Lester said. “Hey, feel like going back to my place? I can cook us some dinner.”

All my internal organs seemed to retract in horror. Suddenly, I wanted no part of Lester’s kitchen, thanks very much. “Gee…um, Lester. Do you think I’d be out of line if I suggested you, uh, weren’t really over her yet?” I tried to smile.

Lester’s face crumpled. “Oh, crap,” he sobbed, “I still love her! I love her and it’s killing me!” He lowered his head to the table and banged his forehead repeatedly, sobbing, snuffling, tears spurting out of his eyes.

I caught the eye of our waitress and pointed to my drink. “I’ll have another,” I called.

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I finally walked Lester to his car, having heard all about Stefania, the coldhearted Russian woman who’d left him for another woman…how he’d gone to her house and bellowed her name over and over and over until the police were summoned and dragged him away…how he’d called her one hundred and seven times in a single night…how he’d defaced Russia from an antique map in the public library and had to serve a hundred hours of community service. I nodded and murmured, sipping my much-needed alcohol (I was walking home, what was the harm?). Artists, I thought as I listened to his tirade. I’d been dumped, too, yet you didn’t see me crapping on anyone’s lawn. Maybe Kiki would like him….

“So, hey. Good luck, Les,” I said, rubbing my hands on my upper arms. The night had grown cooler, and mist hung around the streetlamps.

“I hate love,” he declared to the heavens. “Just crush me now, why don’t you? Kill me, universe!”

“Chin up,” I said. “And…well. Thanks for the drinks.”

I watched as he drove out of the parking lot—no way in hell I was getting in the car with him, no matter how benign his offer of a ride had been. Sighing, I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. Another man down.

Drat. I’d forgotten my statue inside, and whether its maker was insane or not, I liked it. In fact, it might well have more value in the near future. Metalsmith institutionalized. Prices soar. I made a mental note to strangle Margaret as soon as I got home. She was a lawyer, after all. Maybe next time she fixed me up, she could run a quick background check.

I went back inside, retrieved my little statue, wove my way once again through the sea of bodies crammed into Blackie’s and pushed the door to leave. It was stuck. I pushed harder and it opened abruptly, thudding against someone who was trying to come at the same moment.

“Ouch,” he said.

I closed my eyes. “Watch where you’re going,” I muttered by way of greeting.

“I should’ve known it was you,” Callahan O’ Shea said. “Hitting the sauce, Grace?”

“I was on a date, thanks very much. And you’re in no position to point fingers. An Irishman in a bar. How novel.”

“I see we’re drunk again. Hope you’re not driving.” His gaze wandered past me toward the bar. I turned to look.

An attractive blond woman gave him a little wiggle of her fingers and smiled.

“I’m not drunk! And I’m not driving, so don’t worry. Enjoy your date. Tell her to order a double.” With that, I walked past him into the chilly night.

Callahan O’ Shea may have been an arrogant, irritating man, but I had to admit, he was right about my ability to hold my liquor. Granted, I had planned on having some food, but when the waitress did come by, Lester had been at the height of his tirade against love, and ordering buffalo wings seemed insensitive. Well. I wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit buzzed. Add to that the thick scent of lilacs, and it was actually a rather nice sensation.

The mist was heavier now, and I could only imagine what my hair was doing, but I could practically feel it spreading, growing, expanding like a feral creature. I sucked in more lilac-scented air and tripped—the price of closing one’s eyes on Peterston’s erratic sidewalks—but recovered nicely.

“I can’t believe your boyfriend let you walk home alone in this condition, Grace. Such a cad.”

I scowled. “You again. What are you doing here?”

“Walking you home. I see we won an Emmy,” Callahan said, tilting his head to get a better look at my statue.

“This is a very lovely gift. From Wyatt. Who bought it for me. And you don’t have to walk me home.”

“Someone should. Seriously, where’s that boyfriend of yours?”

“He has surgery in the morning and he had to go. So he left.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Callahan said. “Why didn’t he at least drive you home? Did he have feral cats to round up?”

“I wanted to walk. I insisted. Besides, what about your date? Did you just leave her all alone in the bar like that?

Tsk, tsk.”

“She’s not my date.”

“Yet I saw her wave to you in definite recognition and anticipation.”

“Yet she’s not my date,” he said.

“Yet I find that hard to believe,” I said. “So who is she, then?”

“My parole officer.” Callahan grinned. “Now tell Uncle Cal the truth, Grace. Did we have a little spat with our boyfriend tonight?”